You must speak Turkish to get an omelet.

The breakfast fare at the hotel was a large buffet.  I decided to join the omelet line.  A couple of Turkish girls went up to the front of the line and started to get their crepes and omelets.  A couple of times, it  appeared to be my turn but each time one of the girls would come back for one more. 

The cook and the girls were talking in Turkish but it was clear that the imperious way of the “Turkish princesses” was winning over the surly manner of the cook. Nine serving later, the line had grown to great proportions and the grumbling was a roar.  The cook was contentious and defiant.  At one point he was rude to a girl who didn’t understand his word for plate.  When she finally got it, she tried to teach him the correct way to say it, but in her British accent it sounded to him like polite.  He went on a tirade about the fact that he was polite and she wasn’t.

 I left the line sans eggs but a British couple made an attempt to get me my egg- after the girls had their own private buffet.  They brought an unappetizing half fried egg, which they determined was  disgusting and advised me not to eat.  I didn’t.  I concluded you must speak Turkish to get your egg.